“So if I’d been meeting Mr. Easton at eleven thirty—the time on the note—then I would have been late,” I said.
“You would.” He smiled at me. He was unflappable, which, childishly, made me want to try to get a rise out of him.
“I could have had the lights on a timer,” I said, raising one eyebrow at him. (I love doing that. It’s very Mr. Spock.)
He drained the last of his coffee and stood up. “Yes, you could have.”
His attitude had changed. Was it because of all the people who had vouched for me, or did he have another—a better—suspect? I got to my feet, as well. “Would you like to look around the house to see if I have a timer?” I asked.
“It’s not necessary,” he said. “Thank you for the coffee and the muffin.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
He paused in the doorway to the porch, bent down and set a tiny pile of cat treats on the floor about a foot and a half in front of Owen.
Owen had whipped his head around before all the little crackers had made it onto the floor.
“Hey, puss,” Detective Gordon said softly before he straightened up.
Owen eyed the detective. He eyed the small heap of treats. (And how had Detective Gordon managed to palm them without me noticing?) His nose twitched. His whiskers quivered. He lifted a paw.
Detective Gordon caught my eye and gave me a small, smug smile.
Owen started washing his face.
I smiled back—magnanimously, not at all smugly. “Really, it’s not you,” I said with a slight shrug. “The cats won’t get close to anyone except me.”
The detective acted as if I hadn’t spoken. He kept his eyes on Owen. “C’mon,” he said again softly.
The cat paused, one paw behind his ear. And then he set it down. And took a step forward. And another.
When he got close enough he reached out with one paw and pulled the crackers toward him, taking a couple of steps backward, his kitty gaze never leaving the detective’s face. Finally he bent and ate one treat from the top of the pile, actually sighing with pleasure.
Detective Gordon looked at me then, giving me a small smirk—a small, restrained smirk, but a smirk nonetheless. “Have a nice day, Ms. Paulson,” he said. And he was gone.
The sound of crunching filled the kitchen. “Nice to know you’re on my side, Owen,” I said. He burped without bothering to look up.
Note: Sarcasm is wasted on a cat.
11
Wild Horse Separate Mane
“You are a little cat fink!”I said to Owen.
He glanced up at me. There were crumbs stuck to his nose and whiskers. As far as Owen was concerned, there was kitty integrity and then there were kitty treats.
I heard a “meow” from the porch. I left Owen spreading the rest of his snack over the floor and his face, and went to see what Hercules was up to.
He was sitting on the bench by the window. “Your brother is consorting with the enemy,” I said. Herc nuzzled my hand.
Okay, so Detective Gordon wasn’t exactly the enemy. He wasn’t exactly my friend, either.
I looked out through the screen door and caught sight of Rebecca in her gazebo, trying awkwardly to sweep. “C’mon,” I said to the cat. “I don’t see Ami, and Rebecca could use a hand.” He jumped down and went to stand by the door. I stopped to step into my gardening clogs, which I’d kicked off when I brought Detective Gordon in for coffee. Herc meowed impatiently.
“A closed door didn’t stop you last night,” I said, pushing the door open for him.
He flicked his tail at me, went down the steps and started for Rebecca’s.
I felt the brush of fur against my leg. Owen leaned out around me to look across the yard. “We’re going over to see Rebecca,” I said. At the sound of her name Owen trotted down the steps and headed purposefully for the back hedge. I followed the cats, even though I couldn’t see either one of them anymore.
“Hello, Kathleen,” Rebecca said when she spotted me. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”
“Yes, it is,” I said, climbing up the three steps to the main floor of the gazebo and taking the broom from her hands. “I’ll finish up.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she protested. Just then Hercules meowed from behind us. Rebecca turned. I started sweeping.
Herc’s front paws were on the top step.
“Hello, Hercules,” Rebecca said, leaning down toward the cat.
I swept my way toward them.
“Your fur is looking especially glossy,” she said.
The cat ducked his head—embarrassed by the compliment?
“Sardines,” I said.
Rebecca looked at me, puzzled.
“His fur. Susan told me to add sardines to the cats’ diet. She claims they’re what keep her dog’s coat looking so good.”
Rebecca patted her cheeks with both hands. “Do you think they’d work on my wrinkles?”
“Maybe,” I said with a grin. “But they’d be hell on your social life.”
I swept the last of the gazebo floor and the three shallow steps leading up to it. “There,” I said, “what else can I do?”
“Not a thing,” Rebecca said. “Thank you. Ami should be back from the theater in a couple of hours, and I thought we could have lunch out here.”
“The theater? Does that mean they’re going ahead with the festival?”
Rebecca shrugged and picked up a flowered tablecloth she’d set on the bench seat by the steps. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
I grabbed an end of the fabric and helped unfold the cloth. Hercules climbed onto the railing to supervise.
“The board called a meeting with all the performers,” Rebecca said. “I don’t think anything’s been decided yet.”
We spread the cloth over the table and Rebecca smoothed out the wrinkles. The breeze caught a corner of the material and blew it up over the tabletop.
I looked around. “Rebecca, where are your corner weights?” I asked.
“Oh. They’re in the shed,” she said, pointing to the small outbuilding in the far corner of the yard.
“I’ll get them,” I said, starting down the steps.
“They’re on the shelf under the window,” she called after me.
I snagged the broom as I passed it so I could put it away.
Rebecca’s garden shed, painted the same gray-blue as the house, looked like a tiny cottage, somewhere the three bears or Hansel and Gretel might live. The door was open. I stepped inside, blinking to adjust to the change in light. I set the broom behind the door and turned to the window. The weights were on the shelf, just as Rebecca had said.
Tablecloth weights were Maggie’s creation—whimsical pottery elves, fairies or gargoyles, hanging from a cord with a clip at the other end. The idea was to attach one to each corner of a tablecloth. The weight was enough to keep the breeze from blowing the edge of a picnic cloth into the potato salad on all but the windiest days.
I scooped up Rebecca’s weights—four grinning, zaftig and slightly lecherous-looking winged fairies—and turned around.
My eyes had completely adjusted to the dim light in the shed, so it was impossible to miss Owen, standing with his paws on the top edge of the recycling bin just to the right of the door. He had a piece of paper in his mouth.
“Owen!” I snapped. He turned at the sound of my voice. “What are you doing? Put that back!” I kept my voice low so Rebecca wouldn’t hear.
Owen dropped to all four paws, the sheet of paper still in his mouth.
I jerked my head toward the bin and took a couple of steps toward him. “Put it back!” I said, my voice sharp with warning. “Now.”
Owen looked at the recycling box, craning his neck to see the cardboard and paper stacked to the top.
And then he bolted.
I lunged, but I didn’t have a hope of grabbing him. I couldn’t catch what I couldn’t see. At the same moment Owen had run he’d also . . . vanished, faded out in less than a second.